


we rise and we fall and we break

by placidings



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Arrests, Disappearance, High School AU, M/M, Twitter Prompt, lols yeah we're all fucked, martial law au, tumultous govt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-07 22:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14680551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placidings/pseuds/placidings
Summary: In which Elias does not make it to prom night, Crisostomo is agitated, and Maria is left to handle what's left of the mess.





	we rise and we fall and we break

**Author's Note:**

> hello people ur girl is back. This fic is borne out of one of my tweets requesting for prompts, and [Ara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang_gray_smol/pseuds/ang_gray_smol) requested Elibarra slow dancing. Im sorry. My fingers slipped and this turned into full-on historical angst with a complete lack of slow dancing
> 
> title from Wait For It from the Hamilton musical

There are things they don't talk about; things that linger behind small talk that neither one of them want to acknowledge: Like the way their drivers make it a point to avoid Mendiola at all costs; the way Crisostomo's jaw clenches every time radio broadcasters mention the proclamation that happened three months ago; the damn near palpable tension every time their teachers call out a name for the roll call without an answering _present_ ; the vacant chairs in the classroom. It's as though everyone who _can_ wanted to preserve this pathetic semblance of peace, even though they all knew the proclamation was the beginning of something big, something sinister, something devastating.

If anything, Maria finds it ridiculous—they keep quiet and avoid it because they _can_ , because the missing people aren't their sons, because they don't know half of the struggle that pushed gangly 16-year-olds to the streets, because they had the privilege to do so; to be unbothered by the violence because it isn't _their_ world. It's tiring, at times, Crisostomo's vehemence at avoiding her questions about a certain 'delinquent' that is currently missing in their class; like he can sense the question in her voice even before the words could roll off her tongue. Maria does not know how to handle this Crisostomo.

Even more so on this night.

It's their prom night, and he is 10 times more agitated now than he was last week.

Crisostomo is dressed in a perfectly-tailored suit, his hair is styled immaculately, his shoes are shined and gleaming like mirrors on his feet. He is, without a doubt, ridiculously dashing and handsome; a stark difference from all the other boys in their batch who eye him with envy because their dates can't seem to take their eyes off him and the girls unabashedly look at him longingly, waiting for him to ask them to dance. Maria sees it all, she takes it in for him, because her childhood best friend has been glued to his seat ever since the rituals finished. He is tapping a finger against the glass as he watches the double doors; the tinny _tap tap tap_ grating on her ears even though the drums and the guitars and god-knows-who's singing should have been enough to drown the sound out.

Maria sighs. She begins counting up to sixty, coming to the decision of hauling Crisostomo out to talk if he doesn't stop his annoying nervous tick within a minute. His face does not betray any of his internal conflicts, but his eyes were a different story: he was worried, he was frantic, he was waiting for someone.

Someone who may or may not show up.

 _Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty_.

Without another word, Maria grabs Crisostomo's arm with unprecedented strength; hauling him up to his feet and dragging him out of the ballroom even before he could protest. She doesn't stop walking, doesn't let go until they reach the fancy, secluded garden behind the events place, making a beeline for the thick Narra tree.

Crisostomo gapes at her, his brow furrowed. Maria crosses her arms.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you, Cris?" She hisses. "You have been avoiding talking about him for a week now, and I will be damned if I didn't know it's driving you insane. Where is he?"

He swallows, switches his gaze to the shrub on her left.

"Crisostomo. I know you know. _Where_ is Elias and why are you—"

"I don't—I don't know." His voice trembles around the edges, catching on the last syllable, uncharacteristically small.

Maria is taken aback. She reaches up, catching his cheek in her hand to tilt his face towards her. When she finally meets his eyes, they are wide and filled with tears; his jaw tenses in her palm, like he is trying (and failing) to suppress them.

"You don't know?"

He shakes his head, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch. "No—I—they say he was caught, but my father—he was caught too, right? When I visited him, Elias wasn't there. I can't just ask dad to find him because of the problems between our families. So I tried to look for the sole emergency contact on his file, please don't ask how I managed to, his legal guardian, but as it turns out he's missing too. I don't—I don't know where he is now. Is it even legal, Clarita? He just turned 16, he isn't—"

Crisostomo's rambling trails off into heaving, broken, _pathetic_ sobs; tears falling freely down his face and into her hand. Maria pulls him in, keeps a hand on the nape of his neck, tucks him into the crook of her shoulder, letting him cry into her skin. She knew him well enough to know that he has reached the end of his limit; what with his father's sudden arrest—which left him with virtually nobody but Maria's family—at the onset of the Martial Law, and Elias's—his boyfriend, even though he refused to admit it—disappearance. She can only imagine his pain, his anxiety, but that did not stop her from feeling the beginnings of anger hardening in her chest: she knew Crisostomo's father was a prominent politician who openly criticized the president, and that he had been taken as a political prisoner; she suspected Elias had been taken because of his borderline subversive articles in the school paper and participation in various demonstrations. It wasn't fair.

It wasn't right.

"Clarita," Crisostomo murmurs, as though he was afraid of talking too loud. "Maria, did you know that the last time I saw him, it was the day before it was proclaimed? He walked me home, and then he asked me to dance in the living room like he knew this was going to happen. Like he knew he wouldn't make it to prom. I asked him why he was doing that, and he just shrugged it off. That was the last fucking time, Maria."

She strokes his hair in an attempt to pacify him; holds him tighter to silence his cries. She does not say anything. Maria lets Crisostomo mourn.

There are things they don't talk about; things that linger behind small talk that neither one of them want to acknowledge: like the way their drivers make it a point to avoid Mendiola at all costs; the way Crisostomo's jaw clenches every time radio broadcasters mention his father's name; the damn near palpable tension every time their teachers call out a name for the roll call without an answering present; the vacant chairs in the classroom. It's as though everyone who can want to preserve this pathetic semblance of peace, even though they all knew the proclamation was the beginning of something big, something sinister, something devastating. Maria knows now. Outside their gilded gates and walls of white, there is chaos and violence, the country is burning to the ground, and the system which swore to protect them takes and takes and takes to preserve its pristine image, its grasp on power. Maria understands now.

**Author's Note:**

> (no, we don't need a repeat of the 70's. Fight Tyranny.)


End file.
